


Sticky Fingers

by orphan_account



Category: Original Work
Genre: Creampie, M/M, Mirror Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, and other stuff but like who cares abt the details idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 17:55:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18057287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Having chugged thirteen or so energy drinks, and thirteen or so bottled coffees, at eleven years old, Casper was found dead of heart failure in 1994, surrounded by crushed Boss Coffees and Power Squash. What a stupid way to die.Fulfilled request.





	Sticky Fingers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> please note that one of the characters is depicted as rather child-like in appearance and tastes, but is of age and consenting.

                Everything in Penicillin’s life has become significantly more colorful since Casper’s arrival. He means that in the most literal of ways, too; he’s not one for that sappy bullshit. Casper’s “bedroom” (previously, Penicillin’s personal office) is littered with snack wrappings of various bright characters, Gundam and Doraemon and Hello Kitty advertising cheese snacks and chocolates and pudding cups. His rucksack is bright red and filled with drawings made in crayon, his sticker-covered DS, no homework to be found. Not like he goes to school, after all. He keeps a tank full of artificial, red-spotted mushrooms and tall grass, with one singular stag beetle roaming around in it. From time to time, an army of toys sitting beside his DVD collection of anime grows. Penicillin has a lot of receipts for toy stores fattening his wallet. The tank sits atop of a sun-yellow shelf beneath his window, the star-patterned curtains of which are always open in the daytime, even when he’s changing.

                It’s not like Casper is ignorant of how inappropriate it is. As much as these context clues have led you to believe he’s eleven, and as much as his appearance and voice and behavior might suggest it, and as much as Penicillin might also believe it, the stupid kid’s been dead since the nineties. Having chugged thirteen or so energy drinks, and thirteen or so bottled coffees, at eleven years old, Casper was found dead of heart failure in 1994, surrounded by crushed Boss Coffees and Power Squash. Which is why, despite Casper being a beam of color in his clothing, his tastes, his room, his skin never pinkens with a blush. It never gets sun-kissed on beach trips. It’s also why he’ll never get bigger, and why his voice will never get deeper. And why he’ll never insist on more mature tastes when he can just, like, wing the whole I’m Definitely A Kid thing and usurp the cash from pedos like Penicillin.

                So, yeah, he’s fine with stripping in front of the window. What’s someone gonna do? Rape and _kill_ him? He’ll bounce right back. Besides, he likes the sun brightening his room. Penicillin’s conservative, logical home is so bleak. He’s taken to livening it up with his trash, his drawings, his insistent décor choices of a Pokemon blanket that now decorates what was once a nice, minimalist couch in the living room. Beside potted plants and German grammar books are figurines of Ash Ketchum and Rilakkuma. And he draws all the windows open.

                He sees Penicillin walking up the driveway, his satchel in hand, after one stupidly early class. He’d had to pry Casper’s sticky kid-fingers off of him that morning as he clung to him needily. Casper, one sock on and too-short shorts, rushes to the front door. As Penicillin unlocks it and steps in, Casper immediately hugs his thigh, his pale arms wrapping tightly around his slacks.

                “Hello, Casper,” Penicillin greets robotically, dragging Casper’s weight with him to the kitchen, where he sets down his satchel and puts a hand lazily through Casper’s dark hair, scratching at his scalp like someone might do to a kitten.

                “Let go.”

                Casper reluctantly unwinds his arms from his leg and watches as Penicillin opens the fridge and grabs a carton of eggs. Casper lets out a whine and shakes his head. “No, we have to go _out_ to eat.”

                Penicillin looks at him, his dark eyes framed by bags, his glasses doing little to shield his annoyance at the proposition. “Again?”

                “Yes,” Casper huffs, “I’m getting dressed to go out. I’m sick of being stuck inside!”

                As if Casper didn’t go out all the time. He’d adopted a new habit of sitting in the thick, unkempt garden outside, lush with new blooms in the oncoming springtime, and waiting for a new friend to walk by. He’d almost always successfully goaded them into entertaining him in some way, and had even managed to get a few gifts bought for him. Penicillin was never happy to find a new stuffed animal in the bed that he wasn’t familiar with, or seeing Casper in a new pair of sneakers or a t-shirt he hadn’t bought him. But it wasn’t like Casper was _cheating_ , or anything. He was just adorable.

                Casper puts his hands in front of him on the counter and arches like a cat, whining at him, “ _Please_?”

                Penicillin rakes his eyes over him, surveying his clear skin, his bare chest, his thighs peeking out of his schoolboy shorts, one sock missing, his toes curled anticipatorily. Penicillin feels a little bad, being such a materialist, being so easy to sway by appearance. But he’s only a man, and any man would do this for his trophy wife. It just so happens that his trophy wife is (what he thinks is) a little boy.

                When he places the eggs back in the fridge, he grits his teeth as Casper screams in delight, running to his bedroom to finish dressing. _Stupid fucking kid_ , he thinks, closing the blinds and gathering popsicle wrappers from last night off of the floor. His face feels hot with the memory of Casper splayed on the ground, sucking on a blueberry flavored popsicle that turned his mouth violet, staring at him beneath his bangs. Penicillin had tried to ignore the wet slurping noises for a while, but eventually broke and scooped him up, tossing the ice cream into the trash and fucking his mouth in its place. It’d been cold and sloppy, and Casper didn’t do as well as usual with a numb tongue, but the small, mewling gags Casper had produced as his throat was fucked, a bulge outlining it, more than made up for it.

                He’s shaken out of this lewd reverie as Casper walks out, dressed now, his rucksack on (as always) in case he wants to collect something “interesting.” Half the time, this means bugs or rocks.

                Nosing his way beneath Penicillin’s armpit, shoving his face into his suit shirt, he exhales a hot breath of air that makes Penicillin’s skin go tingly and warm. He pets his hair again as Casper begins babbling about some rapper he just discovered. Penicillin feigns attention as they walk outside into the midday warmth and to the train.

*

                It’s normally pretty crowded around this time, being lunch and all. Businessmen chatter politely among their coworkers, crowded together, and students splay lazily in their seats with headphones in their ears. Casper’s the only “child,” seeing as most of them should be in class about now. He takes advantage of this, managing to get himself and Penicillin a seat, since he’s so precious and small and all that. He keeps going on and on about this rapper—Outsider, he says—and how fast he can rap. Penicillin is about to endure listening to it, when Casper decides to shut up about it. He yawns, his teeth glinting in the California sunshine that spills in through the window. Then he lowers his head into Penicillin’s lap.

                “You tired?” Penicillin asks, petting his head.

                “Course I am, Penis-cillin,” he snarls, “You kept me up all night.”

                He goes red and says, in a hushed voice, “I’m sorry about that.”

                “Bullshit,” Casper speaks as loud as he likes, inspecting his short nails for dirt and going on as if he’s talking about the weather, “If I said, ‘no, I’m tired,’ you’d be all, ‘okay, you can sleep after you let me c—‘”

                Penicillin claps a hand over his mouth and shoves a thumb between his lips for good measure. Casper makes a high-pitched, choking noise, and then glares at him.

                “Shit you make me deal with, kiddo.”

                Casper sucks on his thumb with this half-mast, lazy look in his eyes, nuzzling against his crotch with his head. They stay like that, Casper nursing his thumb exhaustedly, like a baby. Penicillin stroking his tongue, pink and warm, unlike last night.

*

                They end up in Japan-town, as they always do. Casper says it makes him feel more at home, although Penicillin doesn’t know if Casper was born in Japan or not. In fact, he knows very little about Casper’s past in general, save for the fact that Casper claims he’s “autodidactic.” He’s heard of students like this, these drop-outs who can’t deal with private or public school, who have working parents, who just teach themselves with online courses or something. He’d met one, once, with autism, who was fifteen and actually rather intelligent, who slept all day and was up all-night studying whatever he felt. He’d self-taught violin, and had a large vocabulary, so who was he to say it didn’t work?

                Casper wasn’t that smart, not really. But for a supposed “eleven-year-old,” he could impress a few adults easily with even his _use_ of the word “autodidactic.” Penicillin hardly knew that the boy with his hand in his, dragging him past shops displaying books and traditionalistic mask-wear and Kewpie dolls, was thirty-six.

                “Let’s get tea first.”

                Penicillin isn’t a fan of this little mall. It’s unheated and boring and the atrium inside makes everything warm, the air as hot as it’d be inside a metal dome. But Casper loves it, loves the arcade inside, loves the touristy little knick-knacks everywhere, loves speaking Japanese with people and purposefully excluding Penicillin from the conversation.

                He imagines it goes something like:

_\--Hi, welcome in. How are you today?  
                --Great! This isn’t my dad. He kidnapped me. Call the police, he’s some disgusting pervert._

                The thought of it makes Penicillin shaky and nervous all over again, his eyes darting around suspiciously at every face that passes. He lets go of Casper’s hand, but Casper doesn’t seem to mind, stepping into a small, aromatic tea shop tucked between a bookstore and a crepe shop.

                They sit at a dainty table etched with flowers and Casper orders himself a piece of strawberry cake and milk. Penicillin asks for a black coffee, which kind of defeats the whole, ‘let’s get tea’ idea.

                “Was this your plan? To eat cake before real food?”

                “Yes,” Casper huffs, stretching his legs out beneath the table and resting his feet on his knees. He rocks them from side to side and Penicillin’s lips quirk into a smile despite himself. He licks icing off his bottom lip and stabs his cake again, dragging a fresh strawberry through cream and shoving it into his mouth. His mouth is still smeared with the white frosting and Penicillin nervously looks down into his cup of black coffee.

                “What?” grins Casper, shaking his leg with his foot. “You’re acting all paranoid again.”

                “You know why.”

                “Mmh, well, if you’re really a schizo or whatever, you chose the wrong lifestyle.”

                “I’m not schizophrenic, Casper,” he rolls his eyes, but feels more comfortable again. He likes it when Casper jokes with him, when he acts like they’re a normal couple, and not… what they are.

                Casper grins and shoves another forkful into his mouth. His feet drop from his knees and he says, “I’ve been watching horror movies when you’re gone.”

                “Oh? That’s not your style, usually.”

                “Yeah, I know. But I like them. I watched this one about a suicide, and how all these girls who bullied the girl who committed suicide start waking up with nails in their hands and feet and shit, and they get all mutated, and like, they start decaying. And they gotta go to the girl’s grave and they find out they need to give one up and bury her in her place, to bring her back and undo the curse, so they gotta, like, sacrifice one of them.”

                “Sounds, uh, gory.”

                “And, I watched this other one, and it was this gang of dudes, like, probably a little older than me, who experimented on a classmate in one of their friends’ sheds…”

                Under the table, Casper presses his feet back to Penicillin’s knees. They’re softer, though, and he notices that Casper’s pried off his sneakers. They’re nurse-white and flung on the sticky tile floor. He wipes his thumb on the plate and gathers more cream on his tongue, maintaining eye contact with a newly-nervous and invigorated Penicillin.

                “They like, tortured him all the time and used him as a pet—”

                “Jesus Christ, what the fuck? How’d you find this shit?”

                “Johnny showed it to me.”

                Penicillin rolls his eyes, “I don’t like that guy.”

                “Well, _I_ do,” his feet make their way between his legs, resting on the slab of the booth in front of him. He sips his milk, the cup looking large in his small hands, and then grins, feral. He leans forward and presses his right foot, firmly, to Penicillin’s crotch. His sock has a red star at the ankle and Penicillin gently begins petting his little calf beneath the table. Casper’s eyes are wide and his pupils are wet-ink shiny and his smile is too large, and he looks manic for a moment, before he relaxes and sits back, his foot lazily stroking up and down Penicillin’s dick.

                “Best part of the movie is one of the guys, this real cute one… Oh, I want to dress like him, okay? I’m gonna find an outfit like his while we’re here—black pants, white button-up with short sleeves, like Shinji from Neo—”

                “Sure, _okay_.” Penicillin shakes his head. He can’t stand when Casper trails off mid-story like this. It takes fucking forever for Casper _to get to the point_.

                “He, hmm…” Casper digs his toes against Penicillin’s balls, which are now heavy and straining, despite his erection only being half-mast, “He’s always been the nicest one to him. But he’s creepy about it. He strokes his face and whispers to him all weird. He went in the shed and climbed on his lap, and like, right when you think what’s gonna happen is gonna happen, he gets the victim’s _DICK_ in his own ass _INSTEAD_! What a plot twist!”

                Penicillin grits his teeth, feeling half-aroused, half-sick that his boyfriend was watching some weird horror-porn with the shitty, unemployed neighbor kid. “You _know_ that’s still rape.”

                “Yeah, whatever, it was so good.”

                “You’re not allowed to see Johnny anymore,” Penicillin decides, slumped in the booth and rocking lazily against his foot.

                “I don’t think you’re allowed to make decisions for me, you know?”

                Penicillin swallows a mouthful of coffee-flavored spit.

                Casper stares at him for a while, looking calm and conversational and smug, and lifts his glass of milk to his mouth. He drinks, maintaining eye contact with him, and then finishes it. Penicillin watches a pearly droplet slip down his chin and is remined of pleasant and nerve-wracking things.

                “I didn’t touch him or anything. I never do.”

                “I hope not. It’d break my heart.”

                Casper laughs, but Penicillin is being serious. He maintains that genuine look, brows slightly hitched and eyes earnest. Casper rolls his own and drops his foot from his crotch. “What a sap. I told you I don’t, so why do you doubt me?”

                The waitress walks by to collect their glasses and set down the check, but Casper keeps on talking, like she isn’t there, “Not everyone’s like you.”

                Penicillin doesn’t dignify this with a response. He just focuses on his own hand signing the check, the loop of ink he creates. Tries to will his erection down. Casper gets up and sits beside him in the booth, nuzzling his cheek against his shoulder.

                “Still hungry,” he mumbles.

*

                After an over-priced bowl of curry and two trips to stores full of nothing but useless junk, in which he’d ended up forking over another forty dollars for a glass lucky cat and an oversized Pikachu plush, Penicillin finally finds refuge in the dressing room of a school uniform surplus store.

                Which is pretty fitting, all things considered.

                With that shirt he wanted, as described in the horror film, rucked up over his back, his lithe, porcelain body arched, his front pressed to the mirror, Casper is a little dismayed that he has to _watch_ himself be fucked by Penicillin. He gets pushed up against the glass with every thrust, his fingertips smearing against it. Penicillin has his small hips in a strong grip, pressing his fingertips in hard enough to bruise, and they might, had Casper not been dead.

                Casper is letting out short, huffy moans. As much as he seemed eager to get Penicillin in trouble at any given moment, he isn’t keen on being found like this; too inelegant, not funny enough for him. He pants, as if he’s really out of air, as if he needs oxygen at all. The little ghoul spreads his legs wider and puts a hand behind himself to tug his own asscheek back, presenting his little puckered hole, currently stretched around Penicillin’s too-wide dick. It’s not overly-big or anything, but in comparison to the size of Casper, still so small and delicate, easy to carry and prop up on his lap, he’s huge.

                Penicillin arches over him and digs his teeth into Casper’s shoulder, biting him. Casper lets out a little yelp and huffs inelegantly. “Watch the merchandise.”

                “Fucking hilarious,” Penicillin drawls against his ear.

                “You pervert. Can’t even let a little boy try on a uniform without jumping on him,” he grins, rucking back against Penicillin’s hips.

                “You love it.”

                He meets his eyes in the mirror and opens his mouth, letting his tongue loll out. Penicillin grabs his hair and yanks him back roughly, “What a little slut.”

                “Who, me?”

                “You’re always begging for it. Walking around half-naked, the way you eat everything, playing with strangers, sitting in my lap, trying to get me off… ah…” he stills his hips, relishing the tight, hot heat enveloping his dick. Casper groans at the lack of movement, but clenches around him nonetheless, rewarding Penicillin for splurging his little teacher’s salary on him.

                “I’m just a normal little boy. You’re reading between the lines too much,” Casper says with a strange amount of control for someone being raw-fucked in a changing room.

                “No,” Penicillin denies any paranoia, “You’re a little whore. You know how we met.”

                Casper grins, “Aw, yeah, I almost forgot. Damn, I really am a slut, huh?” he giggles and pushes against him, eyes rolling back as the silky slide of Penicillin’s big, hard dick begins to trail its way out of his hole. “Fuck my pussy.”

                A hand goes around Casper’s neck, squeezing it tightly, and he leans over to whisper in his ear, “Tell me how bad you want it.”

                “Penicillin,” he purrs, “Fuck your hot load into me. Get me leaking with it, ah—”

                “Good boy. Good boy.”

                “ _Ah_ —” he grits his teeth, hand flying to his small, stiff cock, jerking it off slowly, “Fuck me up.”

                There’s something perverse about Casper cussing to Penicillin. Even when he says ‘damn’ after losing a game or ‘fuck’ when he hits his knee on the table, it gets his cock rock hard. Probably because of how crude he gets when they fuck.

                A thumb slides down to press against Casper’s stuffed, lube-wet hole, and the pressure he puts there on top of his dick is enough to get Casper to cry out, clapping his own hands against his mouth, skidding up against the mirror, which is quickly becoming sweat-slick and wet.

                “Such a cute pussy,” hisses Penicillin quietly, more to himself than anything, “God, your ass is so hungry for it, huh? Always want it in you. I bet you’d let me, let me keep my dick in you all day, just ride it for me twenty-four-seven. You’re such a slut, bet you _would_.”

                “As if you could keep it hard that long, old man,” he laughs, but it’s quickly cut off when Penicillin slaps his ass hard enough to make him whine, and his little dick jerks, spurting out cum against the mirror. He always likes the rough stuff.

                Penicillin digs his fingers into Casper’s ass painfully, his dick throbbing hard, before he lets himself groan as loud as he wants and pumps his semen into that tight pussy, filling him up enough that it begins to leak out around where his dick is still plugged in his ass. His body jerks a little, and the open fly of his slacks chafe against the skin of Casper’s soft boy-thighs.

                “Tighten up. Hold it in.”

                Casper, as defiant and snobby as he can be, doesn’t deny him that pleasure, and clenches up. Tucking himself back into his pants and fixing his dress shirt into a facsimile of sense, Penicillin takes pleasure in making Casper wait there, bent over and whorish, his eyes narrowed at him. Penicillin even fixes his hair and adjusts his glasses, before pulling Casper’s shorts up over his ass. He wasn’t wearing underwear, surprising absolutely no one.

                Carefully unbuttoning the shirt, tag still somehow intact, and dressing Casper as carefully as one might a porcelain doll, he grabs him by the chin and sticks his tongue out. Casper giggles and reaches up to press their tongues together in a gross kiss. Then he pulls on his t-shirt and fixes his hair in the fingerprint-and-cum stained mirror.

                Sliding a glance over to Penicillin, who’s gathering the uniform over his arm, he kneels down in front of the mirror and sticks his tongue out once more. He presses it to the mirror and laps up his own semen. Casper knows how cute he looks; how slutty and perfect, messy and innocent at the same time. He smacks his lips once it’s all cleaned up, and then stands up and strolls out of the dressing room.

                Penicillin buys him the outfit.

*

                On the train ride back home, the evening sun slipping into a pinkish, smog-heavy horizon, the lights of the city around them glowing dreamily, workpeople gathered in the train tight and warm, Penicillin slumps in his chair, trying to ignore the feverish thrumming of his heartbeat.

                Trying to ignore how bad of a person he is.

                It’s hard to do this, when Casper’s sitting there, with his legs up, and cum dribbling down his thighs. Every time Penicillin bats at his knees, Casper only makes more of a spectacle of himself. He’s tucked beneath Penicillin’s arm, looking cozy and innocent.

                Catching the eye of a businessman around Penicillin’s age, he grins a Disney channel grin and lifts a hand in a wave. The businessman’s eyes trail down his bare, soft legs, and then avert to the window to watch San Francisco travel by.

**Author's Note:**

> is this technically necrophilia
> 
>  
> 
> [tip me/make a request](https://ko-fi.com/bibles)  
> 


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